


At The End Of the Day

by Spikedluv



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: First Time, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:04:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spikedluv/pseuds/Spikedluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duncan realizes who his heart belongs to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At The End Of the Day

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song 'At The End of The Day', written by: Kellie Coffey and Brett James, and performed by: Kellie Coffey.
> 
> Thanks To: Karen, ‘net bud whose fb rivals ambrosia; Tammy, my lovely pet, for the slash advice (I *do* want to know how you knew that, btw!); and Ami, for the beta. Special thanks to everyone from HLCrossroads who sent amazingly encouraging fb.
> 
> Written: April 16, 2003

Methos reached for the bottle and poured the last of the whiskey into his glass. He set the bottle on the table, picked up the glass, and leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, resting his head on the wall behind him. He’d been in Seacouver long enough to wear out his welcome; it was time to move on. Again.

It was over a year since MacLeod defeated O’Rourke. Thanks to yours truly, who hadn’t let him sacrifice himself in a vain attempt to save his friends. Mac had stayed in Paris until the end of June, when he returned to Seacouver to get settled in and prepare for the fall semester at Seacouver University, and he and Methos had used that time to renew their friendship. Dinners, chess, theater, Le Blues Bar...and talking. Lord, did the Highlander love to talk, Methos thought now, with a slight shake of his head.

And nothing was off limits. They talked about Tessa and Richie, Amanda and Joe, Connor and Darius, Galati and Byron, Keane and O’Rourke, Alexa and Anne, the Dark Quickening, and the Horsemen. But they also talked about the Scottish Highlands, ancient Rome, baseball, and Shakespeare. Methos learned more about Duncan MacLeod in those seven months than he had in the previous four years. And as much as he tried to prevent it, he just fell more deeply in love with the thick-headed Scot.

Yes, he admitted to himself, hopelessly, deeply in love. Before he’d met the dashing and noble Highland warrior, Methos had infiltrated the Watcher organization as Adam Pierson, mild-mannered graduate student. He was a researcher on the ‘Methos Project’, and occasionally gave them tidbits on his life here and there, but made sure that Methos was never found. In that position he had access to the Chronicles. Specifically, the Chronicles of one Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, Scotland’s shining hero.

By the time they met, Methos knew everything the Watcher’s knew about MacLeod, and some things they didn’t. And he was already halfway in love with the younger Immortal. Infatuated, certainly. When he felt the other man’s presence outside his Paris apartment that fateful day, and heard his name on those lips, he’d fallen just a little bit further. And just to show how besotted he was, he’d even offered the man his head. Stupid sod!

Of course, Mac hadn’t taken it. He was too honorable for that. And such was the beginning of a strange and beautiful friendship, marred by tragedy, misunderstandings, and disappointment, but enduring none-the-less. It had withstood Galati, the Dark Quickening, Kronos and the Horsemen, Ahriman and Richie’s death, and being shot in the back...but it might not survive this.

Methos had waited two weeks before following MacLeod to Seacouver, and ending up on the other man’s couch. He’d tried to hold out longer, but Paris just wasn’t the same without Mac or Joe. Besides, Mac already thought he was mercurial, unpredictable; he could easily pass this off as a spontaneous, impulsive move. No reason the Scot had to know how much Methos had pined for him, missing him the moment he boarded the plane for the States.

He’d stayed on Mac’s couch for two weeks while he hunted for an apartment. He was lucky he arrived before the start of the fall semester, when housing would have been scarce. Methos moved into the furnished apartment with only the clothes he carried in the duffel bag; his sword, dagger, and gun; the backpack which contained his laptop and current journal; and the trunk that held several additional changes of clothes, his most recent journals, additional weaponry, and a framed black and white photograph that he would now carry with him everywhere. He’d learned to travel light.

The photo was one of him and MacLeod that Joe must have taken one night at Le Blues Bar. They were sitting at their table, talking; their heads close together so they could hear each other over the noise of the crowd and the band. Mac was smiling, one hand raised in the air as he made his point, while Methos listened intently. It could have been a picture of two friends enjoying a night out, if you didn’t notice the love, the desire, that shone in Methos’ eyes as he gazed at the Highlander. Joe certainly hadn’t missed it. He gave Methos a framed 8x10 copy of the picture and the negative.

For four months Methos was in heaven. He and Mac saw each other nearly every day. They shared dinner, sparred in the dojo, saw the new exhibit opening at the museum, had lunch at the beach and walked along the boardwalk, went to the theater, attended concerts, played chess, and visited Joe’s. And then, at the beginning of November, MacLeod met Connie.

Connie Bordman owned an antique shop just outside Seacouver. She had been at an estate sale that Mac dragged Methos to. She was a petite blonde with blue eyes that bordered on gray. She was lovely. And she was female. Methos had been looking forward to spending the day with Mac; a leisurely drive along the coast and lunch at a waterfront Inn that MacLeod was familiar with. Instead, they had lunch with Connie, and rushed back to Seacouver, Connie’s number on a card in Mac’s pocket.

Methos had been quiet on the long drive, as he thought about how fucked up his life was. He should have known that when things were looking so promising Fate would step in and deal him a rotten hand. She had never liked him, Methos thought bitterly. Bitch.

It wasn’t as if this was the first time MacLeod had lavished his attention on another. There had been Mac’s long-standing relationship with Amanda, after all. But every time he saw Mac and Connie together, his heart broke just a little bit more. He told himself it was worth it, just to remain in the other man’s orbit. To feel his presence when he walked into the room. To bask in the warmth of his smile.

Until now. He suddenly realized that he couldn’t do it any more; that it was no longer worth it. Mac had been seeing Connie for just over a month, and though they didn’t see each other as often, he and Methos had continued to do things together. Dinner with Mac and Connie had been one of the most difficult nights of his life. A quick count on his fingers revealed that over a week had gone by since the last time he’d seen or spoken to MacLeod. No lunches, no sparring, no late night visits to Joe’s, no telephone calls. Nothing.

It hurt too much to be in the same city as MacLeod; especially a MacLeod in love with someone else. It hurt too much to continue to hope for just a glimpse of him, or the sound of his voice. Besides, he didn’t want to be that much of a ponce. Time to move on. Tomorrow he’d call his friend, Clayton Johnstone, assistant curator at the British Museum, and tell him that Dr. Adam Pierson’s schedule had just opened up, and he was free to translate the ancient papyrus scroll they had tucked away in their archives. Clayton had been trying to get Adam there for years and would be ecstatic to hear that he was finally able to make it.

He’d break the news to Joe and Mac at Sunday brunch. If Mac made it this week. He’d tell them that the translation would only take a couple of days. A couple of days would turn into a week, and then a month, and their lives would move on without him. And he would move on without them. He was startled from his thoughts by the ‘thump’ of another bottle of Jack Daniels Old No. 7 hitting the table.

“Mind if I join you?” Joe asked as he set an empty glass on the table beside the bottle, and then carefully lowered himself onto the chair across from Methos without waiting for an answer.

“Help yourself, Joe,” Methos replied, opening the new bottle and filling both glasses. “Things starting to slow down?” He looked around the bar, noticing the thinning crowd and empty stage.

“Yes, finally,” Joe sighed, and leaned back in the chair and propped his cane against the neighboring chair. He’d been on his feet too long tonight, and his back and legs were killing him. “So, what have you been up to? And where the heck is MacLeod? I thought he was coming by tonight?”

“You and me, both, Joseph,” Methos lifted his glass in a silent salute. “Must have gotten a better offer. Again.”

“Methos...,” Joe began worriedly. They’d never spoken of it, but he had an idea of the depth of the old man’s feelings for the younger Immortal.

“Oh, don’t worry about me, Joe.” Methos waved his hand dismissively at the other man. “Nothing worse than a maudlin drunk.”

“You’re not drunk,” Joe scoffed disbelievingly.

“Even worse,” Methos replied wryly, disgusted with himself. What was he doing? Sure, Joe suspected his feelings for MacLeod, but he’d never confirmed those suspicions. And he wouldn’t now, with this pathetic display of hormonal angst. Time for him to go home and finish getting his drunk on in private.

“I think I’m going to head home, Joe,” he said, and matching action to words, stood to put on his black wool coat, careful not to hit the sword sheathed in the lining against the chairs or table.

“Listen, Methos...” Joe held his hand out to the other man. “...if you need to talk...”

“I don’t,” Methos interrupted, and took the other man’s hand. “But thanks.”

“All right.” Joe nodded in understanding. “See you tomorrow.”

“Goodnight, Joe,” Methos said with a self-deprecating smile, and with a swish of his coattails he was gone.

***

Methos called Clayton Friday morning—after a hot shower to work the kinks out of his back from passing out on the couch followed by a cold rinse to clear the cobwebs from his head. When he told his friend that he would be available as of Monday, the other man was so excited at the news he was rendered speechless. Clayton recovered, took Methos’ telephone number, and hung up to make the arrangements. Half an hour later he called Methos back with flight and hotel information.

Once his travel plans were set, Methos made a mental list of everything he had to do before he left Seacouver. He needed to turn his SUV in to the leasing company, give notice on his apartment, and arrange for his trunk to be shipped to London.

He spent Friday and Saturday nights at the bar with Joe, cognizant of the fact that he’d be leaving soon, and wanting as many happy memories as he could make to take with him. Saturday he walked around Seacouver, stopping by the spots he’d visited with MacLeod, saying his final goodbye to a city he’d briefly passed through before, though this time he’d hoped his stay would be longer.

After he left on Monday, he didn’t expect to return. Not in this lifetime. He’d keep in touch with Joe, maybe even drop in on him in Paris, but Seacouver was Mac’s city, and that alone would make it off limits, no matter how great the draw.

The alarm blared into Methos’ consciousness much too early Sunday morning. He showered and dressed in a pair of old, soft, faded blue jeans, a sage green Henley pullover, and his broken-in hiking boots. He grabbed his coat, making sure his gun and cell phone were in the pockets, his sword properly sheathed in the lining, and the dagger comfortable against his lower back, and then headed out to meet Joe and Mac for brunch.

They waited for half an hour, chatting over coffee, before giving up on Mac and ordering. Their conversation was subdued. Methos, because he was conscious of the weight of the news that he was leaving; Joe because he could see how much Mac’s absence was hurting Methos. Methos had briefly considered leaving without telling Joe, without saying goodbye, but that was cowardly and he couldn’t do that to his friend.

He’d wanted to tell Mac and Joe together, and he was hurt and annoyed that Mac hadn’t shown up. On the other hand, he was slightly relieved. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to go through with his decision to leave Seacouver with the tingle of the other Immortal’s buzz permeating his head, the sight of his strong frame and beautiful face before his eyes, and the sound of his deep voice filling his ears, all of which would combine to mesmerize and entrap the older Immortal, like a fly in a spider web. Unlike the fly, however, Methos would be a willing prisoner, despite the pain it caused.

“Listen, Joe,” Methos began, after their dishes were cleared away and their coffee cups refilled.

“You’re leaving,” Joe interrupted him. Methos looked at the other man in surprise. “What? It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out. You’re unhappy here.”

“Joe...”

Joe held up his hand to forestall Methos. “You’ll keep in touch?” It was more a command than a question, and Methos nearly smiled.

“Yes, of course,” he assured the mortal.

“And you’ll tell me if there’s anything I can do for you,” Joe said, his tone brooking no argument.

“I’m fine, Joe. Really,” Methos insisted.

Joe wasn’t buying it. “You’re not. But I know you will be. And that offer to listen if you need to talk...” He pointed at Methos. “...still stands. Anytime, you hear me, old man?”

“I hear you, Joseph,” Methos replied, his chest aching at the depth of the other man’s friendship.

“So, what are your plans?” Joe asked, and settled in to listen.

***

Duncan walked in to Joe’s Sunday afternoon. He’d had an emotionally exhausting morning and could really use a beer. Or three. Joe was behind the bar and Duncan settled himself on one of the bar stools.

“Well, well, well,” Joe said with a ghost of a smile, “as I live and breathe. If it isn’t Duncan MacLeod.” He might be annoyed with the Scot, but he had missed him.

“Hey, Joe,” Duncan greeted the barkeep with a wry grin. “How are you?”

“Me? I’m fine. You?” Joe made his way down the bar.

“Frazzled,” Duncan admitted. “I could really use a beer. Where’s Methos?” he asked, as he watched Joe draw the beer. He’d expected to feel the other man’s presence when he walked up to the bar, and had been slightly disappointed when he hadn’t.

“Home, I expect,” Joe said, an odd inflection in his voice. He set the beer in front of Duncan and watched as he took a long swallow.

“What?” Duncan asked, setting the glass down and wiping his lips on the back of his hand.

“You missed brunch. Again,” Joe commented casually, wiping the already clean bar down as he spoke. Since Methos had joined them in Seacouver, they’d made it a practice to go out for Sunday brunch, a practice which had been interrupted by the presence of Connie Bordman in Mac’s life.

“It couldn’t be helped,” Duncan said, shuddering as he remembered what had kept him away.

“That’s too bad,” Joe said nonchalantly. “Methos had news.”

“What news?” Duncan asked, interested in anything that had to do with the old man.

“He’s going to London to translate some scroll for the British Museum,” Joe replied, thankful that the older Immortal hadn’t asked him not to say anything to Mac.

“It’s nearly the holidays!” Duncan exclaimed. “Will he be back before Christmas?”

Joe raised an eyebrow. Maybe this thing wasn’t as one-sided as Methos thought. Just one problem though. Connie Bordman, dealer in fine antiquities.

“What kept you this morning?” he asked.

“Joe,” Duncan ground out.

“You answer mine, and I’ll answer yours,” Joe responded, not backing down.

“I broke up with Connie,” Duncan sighed. “It wasn’t pretty. And I might need another beer.” He picked up the glass and finished the beer, then hopefully slid the empty glass across the bar to Joe.

“You broke up with Connie?” Joe echoed. This was unexpected. But he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Why?” he asked, quickly refilling the glass and shoving it back over to Mac.

“Things just weren’t working out,” Duncan replied vaguely. How to tell Joe that whenever he was with Connie, he couldn’t stop thinking about Methos? They had things in common, like antiques and the opera, and she was intelligent as well as beautiful—but she wasn’t Methos. The night he’d conjured Methos up when he was kissing Connie was the night he’d started to rethink this whole relationship.

Duncan shook off his thoughts. “Okay, I answered your question, now answer mine. Will Methos be back before Christmas?” he asked, leaning across the bar.

“Would you have noticed if he wasn’t?” Joe asked quietly.

“What do you mean? Of course I’d notice!” Duncan replied, irritated.

“Really?” Joe’s tone was filled with sarcasm. “When’s the last time you saw the old man? Or spoke to him?” he asked.

“Well,” Duncan’s brow furrowed in concentration as he thought. “He came over for dinner last week!”

“That wasn’t last week, that was the week before,” Joe corrected. “When’s the last time you two did anything without Connie? You know, two buddies hanging out,” he prodded.

“We went to the theater,” Duncan said. “I had tickets and Connie had to...leave for the weekend. What’s your point, Joe?” he asked worriedly. What was Joe trying to tell him? That Methos wasn’t coming back because he’d ignored him? And he hadn’t ignored him...exactly. He’d been busy, caught up in the flush of a new relationship.

Except, at the beginning, he’d still managed to do things with Methos. It wasn’t until recently that...that what? That Connie had monopolized all of his time? Had she done it on purpose? Had she realized that Duncan was thinking about Methos when they were together, and purposefully excluded him from Duncan’s life? No, he scoffed, she couldn’t have. And why not? Because that would make him blind, or stupid, to have allowed it to happen.

“He’s leaving?” Duncan finally asked in understanding. He swallowed hard, willing his voice not to crack with the sudden wave of emotion. “B-because I haven’t seen him for a week?” he still couldn’t believe it. What a fucking bad day this was turning out to be!

“You just don’t get it, do you MacLeod?” Joe shook his head sadly. “Wait right there,” he said, and then disappeared into the office. He returned with a picture frame, and handed it to Duncan. “This is for you. I was saving it for when you might want it.”

Duncan turned it over and looked at it. The frame was black, the black and white photo it held surrounded by a white mat. Duncan stared at the picture of him and Methos at Le Blues Bar, and found himself having to swallow again. He felt like he’d been gut-punched.

“I-I’ve never seen him look at me like that,” Duncan said wonderingly.

“No, you wouldn’t have,” Joe said, his tone of voice leaving Duncan uncertain as to whether he meant that Methos wouldn’t allow him to see it, or that he’d been too blind to see it. Was this what Connie had seen? Is that why she kept him away from Methos? His mind drifted back over the last couple of weeks, cataloguing the number of times he’d suggested stopping by the bar, or inviting Joe and Methos to do something with them, and how she’d distracted him with a kiss or the press of her body, and then suggested something else entirely.

He cursed inwardly as he realized just how easily he’d allowed her to distract him. What a fool he was. “So he’s...he’s leaving because he loves me?” Duncan asked uncertainly.

Joe just shook his head. “He’s followed you around like a puppy, saving your ass, because he loves you. He’s leaving because it hurts like hell watching the person you love fall in love with someone else!” Joe practically yelled.

“But I’m not!” Duncan yelled back.

“Methos doesn’t know that. And it might not make any difference anyway,” Joe continued softly. “He might feel too awkward, with you knowing how he feels, if you don’t feel the same.”

Duncan didn’t lift his eyes from the picture to respond.

***

Methos was lying on the couch, headphones covering his ears, when he felt the brush of Immortal presence. He was listening to a blues CD that Joe had recommended, which fit his mood perfectly. At the faint buzz, he rolled off the couch and grabbed his sword. As the tingle got closer, he recognized MacLeod. Bloody wonderful! What in hell was he doing here now?

Methos didn’t wait for the knock. He pulled the headphones off as he strode resignedly over to the door and pulled it open. “MacLeod,” he greeted the younger Immortal. “Slumming?” He turned his back on the door and walked back over to the couch. He laid the sword on the coffee table and set the portable CD player down beside it, then walked over to the windows in an attempt to compose himself before turning around and allowing himself to look at the Highlander.

Good gods, the man was gorgeous. He just happened to be wearing Methos’ favorite outfit. In fact, hadn’t he told him once that he liked that color on him?

“Hello, Methos,” Duncan said as he entered the apartment and closed the door behind him.

Methos watched as MacLeod ambled to the couch. No, more of a predatory, sensual movement—like a panther. Duncan set the paper bag he was carrying on the floor, took his coat off and threw it over the chair, and then dropped down on the couch. “Got any beer?” he asked.

Methos just stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. Beer? He hadn’t seen or heard from the man in over a week and he just shows up for a beer?

“Don’t tell me you’re out,” Duncan sounded stunned. “No worry. I brought some,” he said, leaning forward and emptying the bag of the two six packs of beer he’d purchased. Alaskan Amber, one of his favorites, Methos noted distractedly. Duncan carried the beer into the kitchen and placed it in the refrigerator, returning with two open bottles.

Methos took the bottle Duncan handed him with nerveless fingers, almost dropping it. “You all right?” Duncan asked.

“Fine,” Methos replied shortly, and took a long swig of the beer, barely tasting it.

“Got any plans for this evening?” Duncan asked, reseating himself on the couch.

“What?” Methos responded. He felt lost in the whirlwind of Duncan MacLeod.

“Plans,” Duncan repeated equably, taking a sip of beer. “This evening.”

“Uh, yes, er, no,” Methos answered the question. He did have plans, but they included finishing his laundry and packing. Not something he was sure he wanted to explain to Duncan at the moment. Wait! Yes he did. He was leaving for London tomorrow, and Duncan’s presence on his couch wasn’t going to change anything.

“Actually, what I mean is, no special plans, but I do have to do laundry so I can finish packing,” Methos said.

“Oh. Where are you going?” Duncan asked casually, as if he didn’t really care about the answer.

“London,” Methos replied.

“Business or pleasure?” Duncan continued to dig.

“Business,” Methos replied. There was nothing pleasurable in leaving Mac, except the relief of not having to see him with Connie.

“Can you tell me?” Duncan asked, and patted the couch beside him. “Come sit down, Methos.”

“Translation,” Methos said, starting to regain his equilibrium. It wasn’t like him to let himself be shaken like this. “Scroll they’ve got stored in their archives. Clayton Johnstone, the assistant curator, has been after me for years to see if I can translate it,” he continued, as he sat on the end of the couch as far away from MacLeod as he could get, abandoning his usual sprawl.

“Why now?” Duncan asked, and Methos froze. Damn nosy Highlander.

“I seem to have some free time,” he replied, trying to keep his voice light.

“Will you be back for Christmas?” Duncan asked casually.

“The translation should only take a couple of days; it’s just a fragment,” Methos replied.

Despite the fact that Methos hadn’t answered his question, Duncan dropped that line of questioning for the moment and changed tactics. “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?” he asked.

“I would have, if you’d bothered to show up at brunch this morning,” Methos replied smartly, and took a long draw off the bottle.

“Ah,” Duncan nodded his head. “Would you have called to say goodbye?”

Methos picked at the label and didn’t respond.

“You wouldn’t have called to say goodbye?” Duncan asked softly.

“I didn’t think you’d notice I was even gone.” Methos stood up and paced back over to the window. Gods, he hated feeling so...off-balance!

“I would have noticed,” Duncan replied, his voice deep and low. “I’ve missed you.”

Methos froze, and then let out the breath he’d been holding. “I’ve been right here,” he said.

“I know,” Duncan responded. “I wasn’t at brunch this morning because I was...breaking things off with Connie,” he said.

Methos froze again as his mind tried to compute what Duncan was saying. He’d broken up with Connie? Why? His heart leapt, and then settled back down. He really was a wanker. Just because MacLeod had broken up with Connie didn’t mean he had any chance with the man. He’d eventually find someone else, someone female, with all those soft round curves, to fall in love with, and Methos would have to go through this all over again. Best to make a clean break now, just as he’d planned.

“Why?” he couldn’t help asking as he stared blindly out the window.

“It just...wasn’t working,” Duncan said. “There was something missing, and I think I’ve finally figured out what it was.”

Methos gave a harsh laugh. “And what was that?” he couldn’t keep himself from asking.

“You,” Duncan replied, and his voice was much closer than Methos remembered it. He whirled around to find the Scot standing right behind him.

“Huh?” he replied less than intelligently.

“You,” Duncan repeated, reaching out to run his finger along Methos’ jaw. Methos pulled his head back and narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Will you be back for Christmas?” Duncan ignored Methos’ question and reached out to take the beer bottle from his hand.

“Huh?” Methos said again as he watched Duncan set his beer bottle on the windowsill.

“Will you be back for Christmas?” Duncan repeated.

“Like I said...,” Methos broke off as Duncan took another step and brought their bodies into contact. He hissed in a sharp breath and took a step to the side in an unsuccessful attempt to evade the other man. Duncan followed him and pressed him into the wall. “Look, MacLeod,” Methos tried to make his voice sound angry, rather than breathless, but he needn’t have bothered, because Duncan wasn’t paying any attention to what he was saying.

“Will...” Duncan lowered his head to Methos’ neck. “...you...” His breath tickled Methos’ sensitive skin. “...be...” He licked the spot over Methos’ pulse point and Methos felt his knees go weak. “...back...” He sucked the skin into his mouth. “...for...” He gently bit down. “Christmas?”

Methos moaned, and would have fallen if Duncan’s body wasn’t pressing him up against the wall. What was the damned Scot doing to him? This was...well, frankly, everything he’d ever dreamed of, but he was too confused to understand it. In his dreams he knew what Mac was thinking, feeling, but right now he didn’t have a clue.

“Tell me you’ll be back for Christmas, Methos,” Duncan whispered, just before covering Methos’ lips with his own, licking, and sucking, and nibbling on them. Methos opened his mouth, possibly to reply, or to tell Duncan to stop, and Duncan wasn’t taking any chances. He slipped his tongue into Methos’ mouth, exploring and claiming every surface, tasting him, learning him.

Duncan felt Methos harden against him, and pulled away only long enough to say, “Tell me you’ll be back,” before reclaiming the swollen lips and pulling Methos’ shirt out of his jeans, running his hands beneath the thin cotton material.

Methos couldn’t stop his body from responding. He felt like he was melting; as if liquid fire were raging through his body. His legs were barely able to support him, his breath was coming fast, and his heart was pounding in his chest. He felt himself harden against Duncan’s thigh. And then Duncan’s hands were under his shirt, skimming over his stomach, fingertips brushing his nipples, before sliding around to touch his back.

Duncan couldn’t believe how wonderful Methos felt beneath his lips, his hands, against his body, in his heart. He left one hand on Methos’ lower back, and moved the other up to rub and pinch his nipple as he continued to kiss him, letting him up for short, quick breaths before covering his mouth again. While Methos was concentrating on the fingers plucking at his nipple, Duncan slipped his other hand beneath the waist band of Methos’ jeans.

Methos’ whole body jerked, and a long wordless moan issued from his throat as Duncan cupped his buttock. He buried both hands in Duncan’s hair and pressed their mouths together as he pressed his hips into Duncan. Duncan pulled his hands and mouth away from Methos and pulled back so that their bodies weren’t touching.

“Tell me you’ll be back,” he insisted as he cupped Methos’ erection through his jeans, sliding his fingers along the shaft.

Methos groaned and let his head fall back against the wall.

“Tell me.” Duncan unbuttoned and unzipped the jeans.

“Oh, gods,” Methos moaned.

“Tell me.” He pushed the jeans and boxers over Methos’ hips and dropped to his knees.

“Mac...”

“Tell me.” He gripped Methos with his hand, and then covered him with his mouth.

Methos whimpered. Duncan sucked the head, poking the tip of his tongue into the moist slit and then twirling it around the ridge, while one hand slowly pumped the shaft and the other cupped and kneaded the sac between Methos’ legs.

Methos was too far gone, and could feel himself getting ready to come. He tightened his hold on Duncan’s head and tried to move his hips. Then Duncan’s mouth abandoned him, and fingers encircled the base of his cock, holding back his orgasm.

“MacLeod!” Methos cried, though his throat was hoarse, so it sounded more like pleading.

“Tell me,” Duncan repeated, licking the length of Methos’ hard flesh.

“Please!” Methos begged.

“Tell me,” Duncan insisted, sucking hard on the head. Methos’ whole body jerked.

“Tell you what?” he cried, lost to all higher brain functions, his whole body centered on the need to come.

“Tell me you’ll be back,” Duncan said softly.

“I’ll be back!” Methos cried. “Duncan, I’ll be back, just...”

Duncan engulfed Methos’ cock and swallowed around it at the same time he removed his fingers. Methos cried out as the painful, wracking, blissful climax finally exploded through his body, his fluid erupting into Duncan’s mouth. Methos’ body had melted, and if Duncan let go of him, he was certain he’d puddle at his feet.

Duncan was still licking and sucking at his softening flesh, cleaning him, tasting him, the hands on his thighs the only things keeping him on his feet. Duncan loosened his grip and Methos slid down the wall until he and Duncan were kneeling face-to-face.

“That promise...duress,” Methos managed to get out, as he sagged against the wall.

“No backing out now, old man,” Duncan replied as he pulled the other man in for a hug. “I’m holding you to that promise. I love you, and I’m not letting you go.”

Duncan tightened his grip as Methos’ body shuddered. “What did you say?” Methos asked.

“I’m holding you...”

“No, the other thing!”

“I’m not letting you go?” Duncan purposely misunderstood.

“No! The other thing!”

“Oh.” Duncan smiled, and leaned back to look into hazel eyes. “I love you.”

Methos closed his eyes.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it,” Duncan whispered.

Methos relaxed into Duncan’s arms and rested his head on the younger Immortal’s shoulder. He wanted to cry. He wasn’t going to cry. Oh, shit, maybe he was.

“Methos?” Duncan asked, when he heard a small sniffle.

Methos just shook his head. It was too much. The pain and hurt of not seeing Mac and knowing that he was in love with someone else, seeing Mac again, the mind-blowing orgasm, and then hearing Mac tell him that he loved him. Too much. He wrapped his arms around Duncan and buried his face in his neck, allowing his tears to wet the material beneath his face.

“I’m so sorry that I hurt you, Methos,” Duncan said, holding the other man tightly, brushing his hand over his head like a child. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“Oh, gods,” Methos finally pulled away and wiped his face. He looked down at his soft penis, and reached down to tuck himself away.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Duncan batted his hand away. “I’m not done with that yet. Of course, you’ll have to be naked for what I have in mind.”

“Are you trying to kill me, Mac? I thought you loved me?” Methos tried to make light of the situation.

“I do.” Duncan’s voice was deep and sensual. “But I have another promise I need to extract.”

“Why do you have to do it the hard way?” Methos enquired. “You *could* just ask me, you know.”

“You’d say ‘no’ just to be contrary. You need me to force you to make the promise, even if you want to make it,” Duncan countered.

“Is that so?” Methos said. “You think you know me so well...”

Duncan shut him up with a kiss. “I do.” He rose to his feet and pulled Methos up, and then led him toward the bedroom.

“Don’t I get a say in this?” Methos complained as Mac set about undressing him, eager hands exploring him.

“Oh, yes,” Duncan breathed excitedly, his erection pushing against his trousers. “On your knees, or on your back?” he asked.

“Oh, fuck,” Methos groaned as his cock twitched back to life.

“Exactly.” Duncan smiled, predatorily.

“What’s the promise this time?” Methos asked, allowing Duncan to press him onto the bed. Duncan didn’t answer. He slowly stripped out of his clothing, and then crawled onto the bed beside Methos, a tube of lube in his hands.

“Lube?” Methos raised his eyebrows. “A little over-confident, weren’t we?”

“Obviously not,” Duncan teased, running his eyes over the man spread out before him.

“Very funny,” Methos grumbled.

“Besides, I like to be prepared.” Duncan dropped the tube on the bed and climbed between Methos’ legs, running his hands up Methos’ sides, letting his thumbs graze Methos’ nipples.

“Well, you are a bloody boy scout,” Methos hissed, as Duncan’s thumbs rubbed his nipples.

“Mmm hmm.” Duncan ran his hands back down Methos’ sides, over his hips, and along his thighs. “Now for that promise.” He brought his hands to the inside of Methos’ thighs and slid them along the soft skin.

“I know that our lives are fraught with danger...” Duncan’s voice was serious, though his hands continued to dance over Methos’ flesh until the other man could barely think. “...and there might come a time when you have to run so that you can live. I want you to promise me, Methos...” Duncan cupped Methos’ sac with one hand and ran the fingers of the other over his perineum, and then lower, brushing the entrance to Methos’ body. “...that if that ever happens, you will let me know that you’re all right, and you will come back to me.” He looked at Methos, whose hazel eyes looked almost black, and said, “Promise that you’ll always come back to me.”

“Mac...” Methos shook his head.

Duncan didn’t know if he was playing or not, but he wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer. He pushed Methos’ thighs up and settled between them. He licked and sucked the balls hanging between his legs, and pressed his tongue against the hard flesh behind them. He nibbled and sucked on Methos’ perineum, and then ran his tongue over the hole that had been his intended target all along.

He lapped at it, wetting it, until Methos was begging him to please, please, please... “Promise,” Duncan said against his lover’s flesh, and then shoved his tongue past the ring of muscle.

“Oh, gods, Mac!” Methos cried out, gripping the comforter beneath him and trying to shove himself further onto Duncan’s tongue. His cock was already dripping pre-come. He’d had intimate relations with men before, but he couldn’t remember a time when his body had been this responsive. Christ, if Mac didn’t stop, he thought he might come just from the best rimming he could ever remember.

As if he could read his mind, Duncan withdrew his tongue and sat up. He wiped his chin, and then picked up the lube. He coated his fingers and then traced his index finger over the puckered opening. With his eyes locked on Methos’, he pressed it in, twisting it to spread the lube around. He pulled out and placed two fingers against the opening.

“Promise,” he whispered the demand, then pressed both fingers inside the tight passage. “Promise.” He coated the passage he wanted to fill with his cock and scissored his fingers, stretching the opening. He pushed his fingers in further and crooked them; his fingertips brushed the spot he’d been looking for. Methos nearly jumped off the bed at the touch.

“Promise.” Duncan touched him again.

Methos wondered if you could die from too much pleasure. He wanted this more than he could say, and at the same time, was scared down to his toes. Mac wasn’t talking a one night stand, or even a casual, intimate relationship. As much as Methos had hurt when Mac found Connie, he’d never really thought about what would happen if MacLeod returned his feelings, about what kind of relationship they could build.

They were Immortals, for the gods’ sake! Destined to kill others of their kind; to die under the sword. What kind of future could they possibly...oh shit! That felt wonderful, and if Mac stopped, he was going to... He stopped! He freaking stopped! Methos thought wildly.

Methos locked desperate eyes onto Duncan, watching as the younger Immortal liberally coated himself with the lube. The ancient eagerly pulled his legs back as Duncan positioned his head at the entrance to Methos’ body. Duncan looked into Methos’ eyes, took a deep breath, and then pushed. Methos groaned and arched his back as Duncan breached his hole.

“More...don’t stop...oh, yes!” Methos gripped the comforter tighter and pressed down against Duncan, until he felt the other man’s balls slapping against his ass. “Mac...Duncan...please!”

Duncan grabbed Methos’ hips to hold him still and pulled out, and then slowly, tortuously, pushed back in. Again. And again.

“Duncan!” Methos cried in frustration. “Fucking *fuck* me!”

Duncan just smiled. “Promise,” he said, pulling back out, and then sliding oh-so-carefully back in. “Christ you feel good,” he groaned as he closed one hand over Methos’ penis and began to pump him to the same languorous rhythm he was following as he fucked Methos’ ass.

“This will never hold up in a court of law,” Methos rasped desperately.

“So sue me,” Duncan grinned. “Not that it matters. I’ve got a new motto.”

“Not the boy scout creed anymore?” Methos asked breathlessly.

“Nope. My new one is ‘all’s fair in love and war’.”

“And which is this?” Methos asked.

“It is what you make it,” Duncan replied softly. “I love you, Methos,” he said as he increased the speed of his hips and his hand. “Promise me!” He gripped Methos again before he could reach climax, and the older Immortal screamed in frustration.

“If I’d known you were going to be this difficult,” Duncan managed to get out between thrusts, “I’d have brought a bloody cock ring!”

The thought of MacLeod using a cock ring on him, which immediately led to an image of him tied down and Mac in leather, was too much. “I promise, I promise!” he cried. “Duncan, I promise.”

Duncan let go of Methos’ cock, grabbed his hips, and pistoned into him, hitting his pleasure spot with each plunge. Methos cried out as the orgasm ripped through him, hot fluid spurting over his chest and stomach, leaving him limp and sated. Duncan watched Methos’ face as he climaxed, felt his internal muscles clench around him. With a groan, Duncan followed him over.

***

When Methos woke up the next morning he was alone in the bed. His first thought was that it had all been a dream, and then the buzz of Duncan’s presence filtered into his fogged brain.

“Here.” Duncan handed him a cup of coffee. “You need to shower and get dressed if you don’t want to miss your plane.”

Methos sat up and took the mug. He let the heat of the mug warm him, and sniffed the lovely aroma before taking a sip. He realized that Duncan had already showered and dressed. He must have really been out of it if he’d slept through Mac getting out of bed. Of course, Mac hadn’t let him actually *go* to sleep until they’d made love twice more, and it had been long after midnight before they’d fallen asleep.

“You are trying to kill me,” Methos had mumbled at one point.

“No, just giving you something to come back to,” Duncan had replied.

Methos stumbled to the shower while Duncan stripped the sheets and remade the bed. When Methos came out of the bathroom, he saw that his duffel and backpack were waiting by the door. MacLeod had been a busy boy, he thought irritably.

“Joe called.” Duncan looked up from the paper he was reading. “He’ll be here in a couple of minutes to give us a ride to the airport.”

“Us?” Methos asked, pouring a second cup of coffee.

“You don’t think I’m saying goodbye at the door, do you?” Duncan replied.

“You gonna kiss me goodbye in the airport?” Methos mocked as he raised an eyebrow.

“Hmmph!” Duncan replied.

By the time Joe arrived, the dishes had been washed and placed in the drainer, and Methos’ sword had been packed. Mac’s cell phone rang and he picked it up. He listened, said, “We’ll be right down,” and then turned to Methos. “Joe’s here. Let’s go.” Duncan put on his coat and picked up the duffel, and then waited.

“If I didn’t know better,” Methos groused, “I’d think you were glad to be getting rid of me.”

“Who says you don’t know better?” Duncan teased, and followed him down the stairs.

“You know I’ve already given notice on my apartment,” Methos grumbled some more.

“I’m sure we can find somewhere you can stay,” Duncan replied with a grin.

When they reached Joe’s car, Duncan dropped Methos’ duffel into the trunk Joe had popped open from inside the car. Methos climbed into the backseat with his backpack and sword, and Duncan sat in the front with Joe.

“Morning!” Joe said brightly.

“Sod off,” Methos muttered.

“Morning, Joe,” Duncan said.

“Christ, what did you two do, stay up all night?” Joe asked with a big smile.

“Just drive.” Methos slid down in the seat and shut his eyes.

Joe looked over at Duncan who smiled, and turned away, but not before a light blush suffused his dusky skin. Joe chuckled to himself, and pulled away from the curb. The drive to the airport was made in silence.

Just before they pulled into the airport entrance, Duncan said, “Thanks, Joe.”

“You’re welcome, buddy,” Joe replied.

Joe pulled up to let his passengers out and popped the trunk. Duncan climbed out of the car and walked around to the back. He pulled his sword out and stored it in the container he’d previously stashed in Joe’s trunk. When Methos had said his goodbyes and stood beside the open trunk, Duncan lifted the other man’s duffel out and handed it to him, then reached back in and grabbed his own.

Without saying a word to Methos he closed the trunk and walked around to the driver’s side window. “Thanks again, Joe.”

“Just take care of him,” Joe said.

“I will.” Duncan smiled. “I’ll call you when I know our return flight information.”

“All right,” Joe agreed. “Have a nice flight. And call me to let me know you’ve made it there all right, okay?”

“Okay,” Duncan smiled again, and tapped the roof of the car.

“See ya, old man,” Joe yelled back to Methos, who was standing on the sidewalk in a state of numb shock which was quickly turning to anger, and then pulled away.

Before Duncan had even reached him, Methos hissed, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going to London with you,” Duncan replied, refusing to rise to Methos’ temper.

“Why? You think I need a babysitter to make sure I come back?” He was in a full-blown snit.

“Of course I don’t think you need a babysitter, Methos. But I do know you...”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, that’s so,” Duncan leaned forward until his breath brushed Methos’ face. “The minute you get on that plane, and away from me, you’re going to start thinking about all the reasons this can’t work. And I’m going to be there to show you all the reasons it can.”

Methos stared into Duncan’s eyes, and his anger left him in a rush. He closed his eyes to blink back tears. Christ, he hated feeling so emotional.

“I love you, Methos.” Duncan rested his forehead against Methos’, and placed his hand on the other man’s nape, squeezing gently.

“I love you, too,” Methos replied softly, speaking the words aloud for the first time.

“I know,” Duncan said. “I’ve seen it.” He gave Methos a quick hug. “Come on, let’s get going so we can check our swords. Do you suppose your room at the hotel has a king-sized bed?” he asked as they pushed through the door.

“Oh, bugger, you *are* going to kill me!” Methos’ voice drifted back into the cool morning air.

“I’m going to try,” Duncan replied with a smile.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> At The End of the Day - Lyrics
> 
> Throw the covers off my head  
> Shake my body out of bed  
> Stretch my arms up  
> And look out the window  
> Sun is rising  
> birds are singing  
> I am greeted by the gift of another new morning  
> And I know tonight as my head hits the pillow  
> I will ask myself as I look out the same window  
> At the end of the day
> 
> Did I laugh and dance enough  
> Did I tell my friends how much they really mean to me  
> At the end of the day  
> Did I really push myself  
> Or was I too afraid  
> To give my heart away  
> At the end of the day
> 
> I wanna learn I wanna live  
> take some big chance and just trust in my instincts and my intuition  
> If I win or if I lose  
> Any road that I choose  
> I will drive all the way  
> I wanna know tonight as I fall fast asleep  
> I am one day closer  
> To where I wanna be  
> At the end of the day
> 
> Did I laugh and dance enough  
> Did I tell my friends how much they really mean to me  
> At the end of the day  
> Did I really push myself  
> Or was I too afraid  
> To give my heart away  
> At the end of the day
> 
> To never forget what matters most  
> To never have to answer noooooo  
> When I ask myself  
> Did I laugh and dance enough  
> Did I tell my friends how much they really mean to me  
> At the end of the day
> 
> At the end of the day  
> Did I really push myself  
> Or was I too afraid  
> At the end of the day.


End file.
